I'll Take Care of You
by alexysmichele
Summary: "One good tug from Sherlock had John tumbling into the bath in a tangle of limbs and soggy clothing."


"Idiot!"

"Stop moving!"

"Then let me go!"

"You can hardly stand without toppling over," John gritted his teeth against six feet of irate Sherlock struggling weakly in his arms. He wasn't entirely sure how they got to this point but the friction from Sherlock's movements was maddening. "Calm down."

"Watch it!" Sherlock snarled as his head nearly collided with a wall. "I do not appreciate you hauling me over your shoulder like a sack of potatoes. I am perfectly fine. Now, put. Me. Down!"

"Only you would put up a fight like this with a dangerously high fever and an open knife wound," John maneuvered them both into the bathroom, adjusting his grip on Sherlock's legs. "We need to get you into a cool bath before your temperature rises any more. And a good scrubbing wouldn't hurt either." John wrinkled his nose at the foul odor emanating from Sherlock's clothes.

"I am not ill. And it's a small cut, nothing that requires your concern," Sherlock pounded on John's back uselessly. "I can clean myself up. Let me go!"

"How are you even coherent? Fine," John muttered. _Prat_. He released his hold on Sherlock, who promptly tumbled to the floor in an indignant heap.

He glared up at John accusingly. "You dropped me!"

John bit back a chuckle and shrugged. "Isn't that what you wanted?" He grasped Sherlock under his arms and gently pulled him up. John's smile faded as Sherlock swayed in place and staggered sideways. "Okay, let's sit you down." He nudged Sherlock backward and reached around him to close the toilet lid before urging Sherlock to sit. He was about five seconds from collapsing onto the floor again.

Sherlock blinked up at John, eerie blue eyes dull and unfocused. John frowned at the stark contrast between Sherlock's dark, matted curls and waxy, if somewhat grubby, skin; the difference was unusually dramatic, even for Sherlock. He should have been flushed with the fever raging beneath his skin.

Doctor instincts took over and John pressed a cool, dry hand to Sherlock's forehead. He winced at the heat radiating from him. Quickly and efficiently, John unbuttoned Sherlock's rumpled shirt, disregarding Sherlock's half-hearted swipes at his hands.

"Stop interfering," John's command was weary. "We need to bring your fever down, I told you." Deft fingers divested Sherlock of his shirt and moved to his trousers with no hesitation. John considered it a massive testament to his willpower that he didn't linger over the pale expanse of skin in front of him.

Sherlock swatted at him again. "I can undress myself, thank you," he stood slowly, lurching a bit, and gripped John's shoulder to steady himself as he disrobed. He was refreshingly straightforward in his movements, displaying his nudity with little regard for modesty.

Long and lean, Sherlock was an endless stretch of hard bone and muscle that demanded to be caressed. Smooth pectorals led to the flat planes of Sherlock's abdomen and…John averted his eyes before his gaze wandered lower. He swallowed thickly and focused on the damn near translucent skin stretching over razor-sharp cheekbones, currently mottled with bruises. Little could be done about those, John thought as he surveyed Sherlock's injuries with a doctor's eye, but he intended to see to the slice riding high on his chest.

"If you're done staring…" Sherlock interrupted John's inspection and quirked a brow. The effect was undermined by Sherlock's ashen face and slumped stance but John flushed anyway. _Bit not good, Watson. You're a doctor. Stop ogling your flatmate and act like one! _John ignored Sherlock's sardonic look and took him by the shoulders. He spun him around and carefully guided him towards the bathtub, already filled with tepid water. Sherlock slid gracefully into the tub despite his weakened state and glared up at John. "Happy?" John turned away, the image of Sherlock sprawled, naked and wet, in the tub affecting him more than he cared to admit.

"Not quite," John rolled up his trouser legs and shirtsleeves. "I'm going to take a look at that cut," he gestured vaguely. "And help you properly clean up." He sat on the edge of the tub, feet dipped in the water, and reached for a damp cloth. John gave Sherlock, who gazed at him speculatively, a suspicious sidelong glance.

One good tug from Sherlock had John tumbling into the bath in a tangle of limbs and soggy clothing. John sputtered and surged upward, blinking the water from his eyes while trying to disengage himself from Sherlock's nude form. "What. The. Hell?" John stood motionlessly in an attempt to comprehend what had just happened. He glared at Sherlock fiercely. "You are such a child! Was that necessary?" He began methodically removing his soaked garments, save his red briefs that preserved a small degree of modesty. John ignored that he was stripped nearly bare under his flatmate's curious gaze and concentrated on putting a rapid halt to his arousal.

Sherlock gave him a tired smirk. "Surely it's more efficient this way?"

"That's hardly the point."

"Just get on with it, John," Sherlock's eyes drifted closed and his words began to slur. His energy was quickly waning. "Do your doctor-y deeds and let me be." John didn't bother to point out that 'doctor-y' almost certainly wasn't a word and rearranged himself more comfortably to suit his needs. Muttering about juvenile antics, John gingerly shifted Sherlock's legs out of his way and kneeled next to him, while still remaining a careful distance away, in the lukewarm water. Less physical contact was best. He was already bathing the man as it was.

"Care to explain how you got yourself into this mess in the first place? You look like you've been dragged through an alley," John skimmed his fingers around the wound on Sherlock's chest and gently rinsed the blood from his skin with a cloth. Sherlock was right; the cut wasn't large enough to cause a great deal of concern. "I seem to recall asking you to take it easy for a few days. The flu doesn't go away any faster by tromping about in the dead of night, looking for criminals."

Sherlock opened his eyes and blinked sluggishly. "It was important, John. I wouldn't expect you to understand." How he managed to maintain such a haughty tone in his state, John didn't know. He flicked bath water at Sherlock, who jolted slightly and peered at John insolently. "Fine." He huffed. "I fully intended to 'take it easy,' as you put it," the lie rolled smoothly off his tongue but it didn't fool John. "But I received a text from Lestrade informing me that our main suspect was on the move. Naturally, I had to investigate."

John rolled his eyes. "Naturally." He wrung out the cloth and gently cleansed the grime from Sherlock's face. "Please, continue."

He leaned into John's touch unwittingly. "When confronted, the suspect didn't take kindly to my…allegations. I may have been too hasty in assuming he was an easy opponent." A quiet sigh escaped Sherlock's lips as John ran cool water over his neck and chest. John smiled at the contentment on Sherlock's face and was pleased to note a hint of color returning to his cheeks.

"But you managed to outwit him, of course."

Sherlock smirked. "Of course."

John continued his soft ministrations for a few minutes and watched the dirt and blood trail from Sherlock's body into the increasingly cold bath water lapping against the tub. He reveled in the peaceful serenity of the moment, content in doctoring Sherlock, in being relied on. John took comfort in knowing that Sherlock needed him. A rush of affection and protectiveness, warm and bright, surged through him. John was reminded that, brilliant as he may be, Sherlock was still human, still prone to vulnerability like everyone else. Very few people saw that.

"I think your fever is beginning to go down," John murmured, hesitant to break the silence. He leaned forward and pressed his mouth to Sherlock's forehead, sparking an electric tingle in his lips, to gauge the strength of his fever. "You're not quite so hot." Sherlock hummed in response, unwilling to put forth the effort to speak.

John shuffled forward, ignoring the pain in his knees, and thoroughly dampened Sherlock's unruly curls. Never thought I'd get to do this, John mused, as he carded his fingers through the silky locks. He slicked his hands with shampoo and massaged Sherlock's scalp, building a soapy nest atop his head. The touch elicited an exultant sigh from Sherlock. He nuzzled his head against John's palms, very much like an overgrown feline. A low moan fell from his lips.

"Enjoying yourself, I see," John teased. If his voice sounded a bit shaky, well, neither of them chose to mention it. Sherlock opened his eyes and pinned John with a penetrating look. John stared back briefly before scooting back and lifting himself carefully from the bathtub. He held out a hand to Sherlock and pulled him steadily to his feet. "Time to rinse." He yanked the stopper from the drain and switched on the shower. John kept on grip on Sherlock's arm, just to be safe, as the water rinsed away any remaining soap from his body. "Towel?" John retrieved a fluffy white towel from the rack and held it open for Sherlock, who stepped cautiously from the tub, eyes sparkling with sudden mirth.

"You do see the ridiculousness in this scenario, don't you?" Despite his comment, Sherlock readily allowed John to wrap him in a towel and gently rub warmth into his body.

John cocked his head. "I do," he looked up at Sherlock with a smile. "It _is_ absurd."

"People would talk."

"People do little else."

"John."

"Hmm?"

"You can let go of me now."

"And if I don't?" The comment was indefinite enough. Both of them could walk away from this and pretend the tension pulsating between them didn't exist.

"Ahh. Well. I suppose that's okay, too."

**A/N: Written for the Johnlock gift exchange. The prompt was: Sherlock is sick/injured/detoxing, John is in the bath with him bathing him in a non-sexual but intimate way. Hope you enjoyed it!**


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